“But three weeks later, when the girl came back, she was such a pitiful sight that even the crudest of them couldn’t bring himself to execute that harsh sentence.
“I still remember how she stood there, wailing, wringing her sunburned hands. ‘Kill me!’ she cried. ‘Go ahead and kill me! But I can’t live like that!’
“And it was then that we learned the truth about Italo Giuliano. That imitation gangster, that homely bookworm, that good-natured boy—he had become a notorious bandit! He was a fierce, clever criminal, famous for his bravery. He roamed all through Italy with a band of men who ate raw meat and picked at their body lice with stilettos. Already he’d robbed ten banks, a dozen trucks, fifty mail shipments, and a hundred landowners.
“‘He’s been doing it for two years!’ said the girl. ‘Ever since he left this place the first time. Everyone in Sicily’s heard of it, everywhere but here, in this know-nothing town, where no one’s ever heard of anything!’
“Italo’s mother shrieked and fainted. I helped her to her feet, and took her home.
“‘Get me my mourning dress,’ she moaned. ‘I’ll grieve for my son as if he were dead.’
“‘Don’t be silly,’ I told her. ‘Now everyone in town will worship him like Jesus. And now he’ll never die.’
“I was right. From then on, the townspeople cross-examined every passing stranger for news of Italo Giuliano. Like their hero, ten years before, they stopped cars at the crossroads and pestered their drivers. Until then, the isolated villagers had viewed the outside world only as a source of rare luxuries, like tobacco. But suddenly their bandit son had pushed them into modern life. For them, all history was the legend of Italo Giuliano: He robbed from the rich to feed the poor. He never killed, except in self-defense. He’d emerged unhurt from a thousand ambushes. He was such a beloved leader that men died out of loyalty to him. And though he’d stolen more than two billion lire, he gave it all to charity, and lived as a poor man.
“The villagers began to regret the inhospitable treatment they’d given Italo during his last visit. After all, they said, it wasn’t really such a sin for a great hero to have come courting a sweet local girl.
“In private, though, they wondered about the real reason for that visit. It was said that beautiful women were always offering themselves to the bandits. Why, then, did Italo come after a scrawny little thing like the Giuliano girl?
“The dishonored girl became a local celebrity. ‘He did it for me,’ she proclaimed proudly. ‘He came back for love of me.’
“Italo Salvatore did everything possible to steal his sister’s glory. ‘No,’ he’d say. ‘He came back because of me. I was his old friend, and he seduced my sister to settle an old debt.’
“But I knew they were both wrong. For I alone knew the true reason for Italo’s visit: he had known that I’d be at my window, night after night, watching him play with that skinny girl. And he wanted me to be ready when he returned again.”
“And I was ready,” says my grandmother, shutting her eyes for a moment, just as she does when she samples the parsley at the greengrocer’s. “In the meantime, though, five years passed. Anthony inherited the bakery; we moved into our own house. And with three children underfoot, I had no time to dream about bandits. Still, whenever I heard rumors of my old friend’s exploits, I’d feel that strange, empty pain, like a missing tooth.
“But on the night Italo finally came, I wasn’t thinking of him. I’d put the children to bed. Anthony was off at the café, praying for three aces. And I was sitting near the window, wondering how I could make a pound of tomatoes last a week.
“Then, suddenly, I heard him. ‘Angela,’ he whispered. ‘I’m on the run. Take me in.’
“For a moment, as I looked down, I expected to see the old alley, with the Giuliano house across the way. But all I saw that night was Italo’s face—shining, beautiful in the moonlight. All those awful cysts were gone, leaving small marks which made him look rough and handsome, like a wolf. He was sunburned; a pale scar ran across his forehead, down through that place where his eyebrows had once grown together. But it was not just his face which had changed. His whole expression was different. He had the look of a man who has won a staring contest with his own death.
“‘Italo,’ I said. ‘What’s happened to you?’
“‘Nothing,’ he said. ‘Can I come in?’
“‘No’ I told him. ‘Wait. I’ll come out.’
“That night I followed Italo Giuliano to the meadow.”
My grandmother is a modest woman, who would never dream of dwelling on the details of that night. But she sighs and gazes off into the traffic in such a way that tears of envy spring to Mrs. Russo’s eyes.
“The next morning,” she continues, “I opened my eyes to see a golden bracelet on Italo’s arm. Shining discs hung from the bracelet; each was engraved with a single word. ‘Honor,’ I read, ‘Danger. Courage. Resourcefulness. Justice. Fidelity. Homesickness.’
“At last, the bracelet’s jangling woke Italo. ‘A bandit’s life,’ he said, pointing to the words on the discs. ‘It wakes me every morning.’
“I couldn’t look at him. ‘Fidelity,’ I said. ‘Homesickness. What does that mean?’
“‘It means I’ll come back to you,’ he said.
“‘When?’ I said.
“‘At least once before I die.’
“‘But why should I believe you?’
“‘You know me,’ he said. ‘I never lie.’ Then he kissed me, got to his feet, and walked off across the meadow.
“I went home and lied. I told my husband Anthony that my stomach was bad, that I’d been sick all night in the fields. But I knew Italo hadn’t lied. So I believed he’d come back, believed him so completely that I didn’t even worry when the soldiers came looking for him.
“Although Mussolini had just come to power,” says my grandmother, “none of my neighbors had ever heard of him. But once again, Italo Giuliano brought history to our village. One afternoon the army rode into town and ordered us to gather in the marketplace.
“‘Il Duce is your leader now,’ said the black-shirted captain. ‘And he has sworn to protect his people from the vicious mountain bandits who have been oppressing you. We know that Italo Giuliano comes from this district, and we would appreciate your help in hunting him down.’
“The captain was an oily little man, who reminded me of my daughter’s painted dolls. When my neighbors sneered at his request, I thought that he was probably well accustomed to such sneers.
“‘Good luck to him,’ said the villagers. ‘He’ll never get one of us to do that traitor’s work.’
“But I was afraid that they were wrong. I was afraid that there was one who would.
“A few days later, my husband Anthony went to play cards, and came home with the news that the doors of the café had been boarded shut. Italo Salvatore had left home.”
“And what happened then?” asks Mrs. Russo. “Did the two Italos meet? Did that no-good man betray his best friend?”
“Then,” says my grandmother, “Anthony and I went to America. The war was reaching up into the mountains. My husband Anthony, always a practical man, knew that things were getting worse, and decided to sell the bakery and take us to some relatives in New York.
“On the night before we left, I went back to my old house. Looking through the window, I saw Mrs. Giuliano, kneeling before a statue of the Virgin, praying for her son’s return.
“‘Don’t worry,’ I wanted to call to her. ‘He’ll be back.’ And then I remembered: when Italo Giuliano returned to the village, I would no longer be there.”
“So Anthony and I came to Carmine Street. Here in America life was so different, I sometimes thought that all my memories had happened to someone else. When I remembered that view from my window, it seemed like something in a dream. And so, ten years ago, when a stranger knocked on my door, I didn’t think of Italo Giuliano. When a stranger knocks in America, you think of boys selling magazine
s; you don’t expect bandits from the wilds of Sicily.
“On that day, I opened my door to find a dapper old gentleman, with a bristling red moustache. He was well dressed, in a black coat and a trim gray hat. But his hair was oddly streaked, as if he’d dyed and redyed it many times. His eyes were nervous. He reminded me of a fox.
“‘What can I do for you?’ I said.
“‘Let me introduce myself,’ he answered.
“‘I haven’t got much time,’ I told him. But already, he’d opened his fist. In his palm were two gold discs, engraved with the words ‘Fidelity’ and ‘Homesickness.’
“‘Italo Giuliano!’ I cried.
“‘I was his first lieutenant,’ said the man, fixing me with his fox’s eyes.
“‘Come in,’ I said. ‘Come in. How is Italo?’ I asked, as soon as he’d stepped inside. ‘What’s he doing now? Is he still in the mountains, running with those bandits?’
“The man looked at me, puzzled. ‘He’s dead,’ he said. ‘He’s been dead forty years.’
“‘No,’ I said. ‘No.’
“‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I was there. Would you like me to tell you the story?’ Then, without waiting for a reply, he sat down at the kitchen table, and began:
“In the spring of 1933, one of our spies returned to camp with the news that a lone man had been asking around for Italo Giuliano, searching for him everywhere.
“‘What sort of man?’ Italo asked.
“‘A fool,’ replied the spy. ‘And probably an informer. He dresses like a gangster, like a teenage kid pretending to be a gangster. He wears an old leather jacket with the collar turned up. He chain-smokes cigarettes, narrows his eyes, and mumbles out of the corner of his mouth.’
“‘I know the man,’ said Italo Giuliano. ‘Go bring him back.’
“We thought it odd that Italo should invite a stranger to our camp, at such a crucial and dangerous time. But Italo had never failed us before. He was the best leader who ever lived and we trusted him completely.
“But when the stranger finally arrived, and we saw what kind of man he was, we began to wonder if something had impaired our chief’s judgment.
“The stranger was a fool. His gangster ways were ludicrous. He had a soft body, a pretty face, two empty eyes. He reminded me of a child.
“But Italo greeted him like a long-lost brother. ‘My oldest friend!’ he cried. ‘My oldest friend! What are you doing here?’
“‘I want to join the bandits,’ said the other.
“They began to talk, right there in the midst of us. And gradually, we saw: they’d been childhood pals. And this pretty boy, this nobody—he’d been the leader. Of course things had changed, but it took that fool some time to see it. At first, he still played the bigshot with Italo, teasing him, insulting him a little, saying that our captain wasn’t nearly so ugly as he used to be.
“Italo didn’t seem to mind. He couldn’t have been nicer, or more hospitable. In fact, he told his friend that he could stay as long as he pleased, and showed him to a tent.
“When Italo returned, we gathered round him. ‘Send him away,’ we said. ‘And let’s get out of here right now. That man’s a fool, he’s too soft to ride with us. Besides, he’s an informer if we’ve ever seen one. He can’t stay here, we’ve got to escape, it’s dangerous!’
“‘If he’s an informer,’ Italo said calmly, ‘let him go and inform. Meanwhile, my friend’s arrival calls for a celebration. Go get the wine we stole from the vineyards up north. Let’s drink.’
“Sick with uneasiness, we opened the wine. And that night, we drank until our fear of the informer no longer mattered.”
“Suddenly, the foxlike gentleman paused. He looked down at the ground, and wiped his moustache with the back of his hand.
“‘Madame,’ he said softly. ‘You know the rest of the story yourself. The next morning, we were attacked by an army battalion. Everyone was killed, including Italo Giuliano. In the crossfire, the soldiers accidentally shot their own informer. I alone survived to carry out my leader’s wish—to find you, and give you his friendliest regards.’”
“For a moment,” says my grandmother, “I couldn’t speak. Then, I looked at my visitor, and began to scream. ‘Of course I know the story,’ I screamed. ‘The brave outlaw, betrayed by his best friend. I’ve heard it a thousand times. And that’s why I don’t believe a single word you say.’
“‘Because Italo Giuliano knew that story too. He’d read it as a boy, in his books. And he would never have walked into such an obvious trap. He knew Italo Salvatore had a hundred reasons for betraying him. He would never have gone along with it, and died such a ridiculous death.’
“‘Besides, I knew you were lying from the beginning. You said that Italo called the stranger his oldest friend. But Italo Giuliano would never have said that. For I was his oldest friend!’
“The gentleman stood up. ‘I saw it with my own eyes,’ he said.
“‘You saw nothing!’ I said. ‘You’re an impostor, seeking charity. You’ve come here with lies and stolen souvenirs, looking for some kind of pity.’
“‘If Italo didn’t die in Sicily,’ said the man, ‘then where is he?’
“‘He isn’t really dead!’ I screamed, and slammed the door behind him.”
Mrs. Russo takes a deep breath. “Do you really think he’s still alive?” she asks. “He’d be old now, like us.”
“He promised he’d come back,” says my grandmother. “I pray for my husband Anthony among the dead souls. But I pray for Italo Giuliano among the living.”
Once again, my grandmother gazes off into the uptown traffic, peering at each passing taxi—as if, at any moment, Italo Giuliano might come riding up, in the back seat of a cab.
“What I want to know,” says Mrs. Russo, “is this: Why did he become a bandit? Was it his love for you, his friendship with Italo Salvatore, his homeliness, his reading? Was it all that mistreatment he took as a boy?”
“Those might have been his reasons,” replies my grandmother, “but I do not think they were. With a man like Italo there are no simple answers. Mrs. Russo,” she sighs, “tell me: Was there ever another man on this earth like Italo Giuliano?”
Mrs. Russo hesitates for several minutes. “Your husband Anthony,” she says at last, “was a very good man.”
Now the truth of the matter is this: for twenty years Mrs. Russo was in love with my grandmother’s husband Anthony. Like her friend, she is a modest woman; so she confined her passion to a few hesitant waves from her window across the courtyard. But once each year, at the Knights of Columbus Ball, she and Anthony danced one waltz. And that is what Mrs. Russo remembers.
And so, every time my grandmother tells the story of Italo Giuliano, Mrs. Russo hears it as the story of her husband Anthony. Whenever she hears it, she understands why that unhappy look came into Anthony’s eyes as they waltzed to the orchestra’s sad, slow tunes. She understands that it was the look of a man whose wife is married to the memory of a bandit.
Personally, Mrs. Russo couldn’t care less about Italo Giuliano. To her, he is no more important than the drunks who stumble across the traffic island.
And that is the true story of bandit lovers—of men like Italo Giuliano, Cartouche, Robin Hood, Lampiao, and Wu Sung.
They never really die. But they can only really live in the hearts of women like me and my grandmother.
Useful Ceremonies
AT THE PASSOVER SEDER, they are talking about Davy Crockett. All the guests are about the same age and remember the same TV. Perhaps they are thinking of Davy Crockett because of Gail and Maury’s country primitive decor. How at home he would feel on their Shaker bench, at their roughhewn colonial trestle table!
“The Alamo!” says Gail.
“What was he doing there?” Maury asks. “I forget.”
“Shopping for a Bowie knife,” says Gail’s sister Becky.
“Right,” Gail says. “Putting it on his American Express.”
Bec
ky sets down the spoon with which she’s been feeding Gail and Maury’s baby, Randy. “Do you know me?” she says, holding up an imaginary card. “Probably you don’t recognize me without that stupid raccoon hat.”
Everyone laughs, perhaps a bit too heartily; they all know that Becky is having a difficult time. Right now Becky feels okay, tipsy on Manischewitz kirs—“the nostalgia drink,” Gail calls it—and tempted to ask: How could they have got through the seder with no one reading from the Haggadah and Davy Crockett in place of Elijah the Prophet? But why criticize? At least Gail and Maury attend their local Reform synagogue. And why be ungrateful when Gail and Maury are letting Becky spend two weeks with them in Tuckahoe, hiding out from her regular life—her loft, her husband Jack, the gallery she and Jack own together?
The last dinner Jack and Becky went to was in a sculptor’s Chelsea loft; a Japanese chef made sushi. Becky said, “Don’t you think sushi’s like some kind of drug? I mean, you get this great protein rush, but six hours later you better eat something quick or you get suicidal.” There was a silence. Then a woman named Darlene sighed and said, “I think sushi’s like sex.” Later, Darlene got up to go home, and Jack—without a word to Becky—put on his coat and went with her. Darlene’s half Malaysian, a critic for a London punk-art journal. It’s the least of her problems, but still Becky’s horrified that she has been left for a woman with a Mousketeer name.
The brisket Becky’s mashing with the back of her fork to feed Randy couldn’t be less like sushi; for this alone, Becky feels a rush of warmth toward Gail, who has been saying all week that what got Becky into trouble was asking too many questions. It wasn’t the number of questions, thinks Becky, but asking the same one too often.
“Next year,” was how Jack always answered. Next year Becky will be forty, and, until the sushi party, had been making a point of it. Jack said he was sorry, he understood, he needed to think more about what having a child would mean. This is what it means, Becky thinks now: meat, plate, fork to mouth. No need to think any further. If only she’d known enough to say that.
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